The Old Year.

The old year is dying,

Its last hour is hieing

Over the verge;

The night winds are plying,

And are mournfully sighing

Its funeral dirge.

And now, in its even,

While its spirit is riven

Through the bright zone,

Beyond the heaven

To whence it was given —

To the unknown.

Its sadness in ending

Like a cloud is descending

Over my soul,

And the thoughts that are pending

With the low winds are blending,

Helping their dole.

A year of existence

Has passed to the distance

Ne'er to return:

To the right was resistance,

From duty desistance,

Nor would I learn.

But duty neglected

And virtue rejected

We may amend;

Then why be dejected?—

So sorely affected?

Whence does it tend?

Is it that pleasure

In liberal measure

I have not known?

Ah! rapturous pleasure

In memory I treasure,

But — it is flown.

Opportunity wasted,

Though far we have passed it,

We may retrieve;

But beakers once tasted

Of bliss while they lasted

Bitterness leave.